


Flawed Design

by BellumGerere



Series: Chemical Prisoner [2]
Category: Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Outtakes, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 12:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11759412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellumGerere/pseuds/BellumGerere
Summary: Rewrites of various chapters of "Breaking The Habit," mostly from Christina's POV.





	1. Chasm (Christina)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So all of these are going to be alternate-POV (mostly Christina's POV) rewrites of various chapters from "Breaking The Habit." This first one is the chasm scene that appears in the book and is chapter 4 of BTH. There are a couple more already on FFn that will be posted here as well, and I might do more in the future.

"This isn't good." I nudge Tris in the arm. The space next to her name is blank, which means she won't be fighting today. I'm relieved for her—she's obviously strong mentally, but not so much physically. I suppose growing up in Abnegation will do that to you. She needs more time to build up before taking on any formidable opponent. Or any opponent at all, really.

"Ow." She winces—my elbow landed right on one of her sore muscles.

"Sorry. But look. I'm up against the Tank."

"The tank?"

"Yeah, Peter's slightly more feminine-looking minion." I grimace in their direction, nodding, and Tris follows my gaze. "Those three" –here I point at each of them, Peter, Molly, and Drew— "have been inseparable since they crawled out of the womb, practically. I hate them."

In the arena, Al and Will are fighting. Well, sort of—mostly they're just shuffling awkwardly, not really wanting to hit each other. I try not to look at it. It’s giving me too much secondhand embarrassment. "What's wrong with them?" Tris says.

"Peter is pure evil. When we were kids, he would pick fights with people from other factions and the, when an adult came to break it up, he'd cry and make up some story about how the other kid started it. And of course, they believed him, because we were Candor and we couldn't lie. Ha ha. Drew is just his sidekick. I doubt he has an independent thought in his brain. And Molly…she's the kind of person who fries ants with a magnifying glass just to watch them flail around."

Tris looks terrified. Al punches Will in the jaw. It looks painful, and I'm immensely glad I'm not him. Across the room from me, Eric smirks, turning one of his many piercings. I don't know what his problem is, but he disgusts me. I've only known him for a few days and I think I've already got him figured out. And what I've figured out isn't good. Meanwhile, Peter, Drew, and Molly are whispering and staring at us.

"I think they know we're talking about them," Tris says.

"So? They already know I hate them."

"They do? How?"

I smile and wave at them, both filled with insincerity. "Because I've told them. We try to be pretty honest about our feelings in Candor. Plenty of people have told me that they don't like me. And plenty of people haven't. Who cares?"

"We just…weren't supposed to hurt people."

Man, Abnegation is one strange faction. "I like to think I'm helping them by hating them. I'm reminding them that they aren't God's gift to humankind."

She laughs a little, but her focus is clearly on the arena. Will brushes hair from his eyes, but neither of them are fighting. "Do you think this is a leisure activity?" Eric shouts. Bastard. "Should we break for naptime? Fight each other?" I think he’s enjoying this a little too much. If this is what the other leaders are like, I might seriously have to worry about my future here.

"But…" Al drops his hands. "Is it scored or something? When does the fight end?"

"It ends when one of you is unable to continue," Eric snaps. I narrow my eyes, hating him and his ruthlessness.

"According to Dauntless rules, one of you could also concede," Four says, contradicting him. A dangerous thing to do, I can tell, especially when he looks like…that.

"According to the _old_ rules. In the _new_ rules, no one concedes."

"A brave man acknowledges the strength of others."

"A brave man never surrenders."

They stare each other down for what feels like a very long time, and I can't help noticing how different they are. Eric is supposedly the poster child for what every young Dauntless should be, but I don't feel he deserves the title of leader. It belongs to Four.

"This is ridiculous." Al shakes his head. "What's the point of beating him up? We're in the same faction!"

"Oh, you think it's going to be that easy?" Will is grinning as he puts his hands up again.  I can tell he’s faking his bravado, that he thinks this will make him look braver in front of everyone else. He’s wrong. "Go on. Try to hit me, slowpoke."

It's no use. I know that, though I'm still rooting for him in the back of my mind. He manages to dodge the first hit and gets in a kick to Al's back, but it does practically nothing and with one well-placed punch in the jaw, it's over.

"Get him up," Eric says. He's staring at Will's body intently, but at the same time I feel that his mind is elsewhere, that he’s looking at it without really _seeing_ it. Four circles Al's name on the chalkboard, then helps Will out of the room. We're alone with Eric. I am suddenly hyperaware of everything going on around me.

"Next up—Molly and Christina!" he yells.

I crack my knuckles and tuck my short hair behind my ears as I head to the arena, trying to seem confident. I can't say for sure whether or not I'm expecting to win: my mind is a nervous wreck. Molly smirks at me, overly confident in an easy victory. On impulse, I kick her in the side. Her look of outrage is priceless. Stringy hair falls on her face, and she makes no move to brush it away. Instead she dives at me.

I hit the ground hard, with her pinning me down. Her weight is too much. She tries to punch me, but I snap my head to the side, and her fist hits the mat. This doesn't deter her—in fact, it just seems to make her angrier. She just keeps trying until finally the muscles in my neck can't keep up anymore, and her fist hits my jaw. My nose. My mouth. I'm covered in blood and filled with white-hot pain. Something might be broken. I’m being forced to swallow my own blood with every breath I take, leaving a metallic taste in my mouth. I scream through clenched teeth, willing myself not to cry, and manage to free one of my arms, which I then use to punch her in the ear. It knocks her off-balance, and I slide free. Every moment saps my strength. I struggle to my knees, one hand on my face, which is still dripping copious amounts of blood. The dam breaks and I'm sobbing as I inch away from her, on two knees and one hand.

Not fast enough: she kicks my side, and I fall again. There’s an inferno in my side and one of my ribs might be broken and I can't let this go on; she'll devour me if I do.

"Stop!" I hold out a hand, covered in crimson. "Stop! I'm…" I’m forced to stop so I can cough, splattering the floor with more of my blood. "I'm done."

Silence for a few moments, then a shadow falls over me, and I see the tip of a black boot. Eric. "I'm sorry, what did you say? You're done?"

I push myself to my knees, trying to ignore the fact that the room is spinning, and nod.

"Get up." His voice is deadly quiet, and it terrifies me. No one is going to help me now. I can't move. That's not a problem for Eric; he grabs my arm roughly, forcing me to my feet, and starts to pull me out the door.

"Follow me," he calls to the other transfers. For a few seconds he's glaring at me as he drags me down the hall, looking almost…wild. There is some animal instinct in his eyes, and as I stumble along, dragged by his force, I grasp it almost immediately:

Eric, leader of the Dauntless, is afraid of me.

Maybe not of _me_ , specifically—after all, I did just prove that I’m a shit fighter—but something about me has set him on edge. He won't look at me again, just pulls me along behind him like I'm a disobedient child, leading us to the chasm, where he shoves me against the waist-high railing.

"Climb over it," he says.

"What?" He's got to be kidding. There's no way he's going to make me…

"Climb over the railing." He speaks slowly, condescendingly, like he thinks I'm an idiot for not immediately grasping the nature of his cruel and unusual punishment. "If you can hang over the chasm for five minutes, I will forget your cowardice. If you can't, I will not allow you to continue initiation."

 _If I can’t, I’ll be fucking dead._ It's not the punishment that's cruel and unusual: it's him. "Fine." My voice shakes, and I hope he doesn't notice. This is so stupid. I shouldn’t be doing this, no matter who’s telling me to. But I swing one leg over the railing, then the other one, and slowly lower myself off the edge.

 _Huh_ , I think. _This isn't so bad_. The railing's a bit slippery, but not enough that it should pose a serious problem, and hanging is no strain on my muscles. As long as this keeps up, I can—

Water sprays my back, hard, and my face strikes the bars, re-igniting the pain in my possibly broken nose. A strangled cry escapes me, my hands slip, and I'm holding on just by my fingertips. I'm coming to terms with my death. How can I not, when it's so certain? At least I got to kick Molly before I went. Another wave hits me, and this time it leaves me hanging by one hand. The muscles in my arm are starting to ache. _I'm going to die I'm going to die oh God I'm going to die right now…_

"Come on, Christina." Al. I can't see him, there is water in my eyes, but I recognize his voice. "Come on, grab it again. You can do it. Grab it."

 _It's not as easy as you make it sound._ Still, his encouragement gives me strength. I swing my free arm again and again, painfully aware of how it moves the rest of my body, until my hand finds the top of the railing. "One minute left," I hear Tris say. Eric is enjoying this, I'm sure, as it seems he gets his kicks by torturing innocents. I'm shaking so hard I don't know if I'll be able to last ten more seconds, let alone sixty.

More water hits my back. I scream. Tris screams. My hands slip off the railing. But I won't go down without a fight. I grab the vertical bars and my hands slide down them, so wet there's almost no friction, until they meet the ground. My face is pressed to the rock and I'm sobbing so hard I can barely catch my breath, knowing these are my last moments—

"Five minutes are up," I hear Al say, but I'm too weak to pull myself up, am begging to die…

I struggle for what has to be at least another minute. Eric is certainly taking his precious time.

"Fine," he says finally, if somewhat reluctantly. "You can come up, Christina.” A pause. Some footsteps. “No. She has to do it on her own."

"No she doesn't," Al responds. I've never heard him that angry before. "She did what you said. She's not a coward. She did what you said."

I feel Al's large hand wrap around my wrist, and I cling to him with my own limp one like he's the only thing keeping me alive (which, at this point, he is). When I'm high enough for her to reach, Tris grabs on to me, too. They lay me in a wet, bloody heap on the floor, and our eyes lock as I try to catch my breath again.


	2. Choice CPOV

I wake up early the next day, though I wish I didn't. My arms still ache from yesterday, and when I shower, I see bruises covering most of my skin. For some reason, Eric's face swims in my mind. I caught his eyes as Al and Tris led me back to the dorm yesterday, and that scared look of his was back again. Not on his face…just in his eyes. As a former Candor, I consider myself to be exceptionally good at reading things like that.

I enter the training room later than everyone else, trying to effectively hide my limp as I crumple a muffin wrapper in my fist. I didn't eat it: my stomach is tied in knots, knowing I have to fight, aching to win, dreading to lose, scared to see him again. "Oh no" slips out of my mouth as I look at the board: Tris is fighting Peter. I'm paired with Will, but we're both so bruised it's hard to say who will win. "Are they serious? They're really going to make _you_ fight _him_?"

"Maybe you can just take a few hits and pretend to go unconscious," Al says. "No one would blame you."

"Yeah. Maybe," Tris responds. We can tell she's only halfway here. It occurs to me we're being a bit condescending, but I don't take anything back; we all know she's not ready for this. Al turns his attention to me instead. "How are you doing?"

"Not so well." I grimace as I uncurl my fingers, letting the muffin wrapper fall on the floor. "Will's gonna beat me in about half a minute, the way I'm feeling."

"You don't know that."

I raise an eyebrow at him.

"Okay, maybe you do."

Molly, who had been fighting Edward (of course, she lost. Ha.) limps out of the arena, and Tris takes her place. Peter smirks at her, clearly thinking this will be an easy victory. I'm afraid he's right, afraid he's wrong.

"You okay there, Stiff? You look like you're about to cry. I might go easy on you if you cry. Come on, Stiff. Just one little tear. Maybe some begging."

She tries to kick his side, like I did to Molly yesterday, but he grabs her ankle and pulls her to the ground. Breathing hard, she gets back up on her feet. It’s honestly more than I expected of her, and I have to be proud even for that.

"Stop playing with her," snaps Eric. "I don’t have all day." Do I imagine it, or do his eyes flicker over to me? His words work some kind of Dauntless magic on Peter, though, because he instantly becomes more serious. And that doesn't bode well for Tris. The beating's so bad I have to squint just to watch it without throwing up. Four leaves the room, and (eventually) Eric steps in again, this time shouting "Enough!" and instructing Al to carry her to the hospital wing. I'm not seeing things, he's definitely looking at me—but this time it makes sense, because Will and I are next to fight.

We face each other in the arena, and he winks and mouths "I'll go easy on you." I roll my eyes and aim a weak punch at his stomach. He blocks it easily, and his fist connects with my jaw.

I'm not exactly sure what happens next. I think I black out for a few seconds. But he helps me up, and I can't really be mad at him for beating me, not when he's looking so concerned.

"Your jaw—"

I wave his worry away. "I'm fine. I mean, I've definitely had worse."

We sit on the floor, not really paying attention to the rest of the matches, talking until I hear Eric call "Listen up" and I'm forced to stand. "You'll be taking a little field trip to the fence tomorrow, to learn about Dauntless jobs. The train leaves at eight fifteen. I suggest you be there."

"Will you be coming with us?" Peter asks in his _I'm-such-a-damn-teacher's-pet_ voice.

Eric looks at him like Peter's something disgusting he stepped in, and it makes me like him just a little bit more. "No, because I have a job to do. One that's a little more important than babysitting you all day." When no one moves, he pressed his palm to his forehead, exasperated, and says "You can go now."

We start to file out. Will is just starting to suggest we go see Tris when I feel his hand on my shoulder.

I recognize it instantly—yesterday it dragged me down a hallway and pushed me to my hear death. "Don't move," Eric instructs. His hand lifts, but I still feel it there, rooting me to the spot. Will looks at me uncertainly and I mouth "Go," afraid that if he stays it will just get him in trouble.

Will leaves the room just as Eric walks around me to stand in my line of sight. Slowly, like he's trying not to startle me, he holds out an ice pack in his long fingers. "For your jaw."

I am hesitant to take it—I have every reason not to—but I do, and hold it to my injury. The cold is unexpectedly…good. "Thanks."

"No problem."

I'm almost out the door when I remember I still have a question that needs answered. "Why?"

His face hardens. So he knows what I mean. "You wouldn't understand."

"Of course I wouldn't." I throw a glare over my shoulder as I leave.

Will is waiting only a few feet outside the doors. "What was _that_ all about?" he asks as we start down the hallway. It isn't very far to the hospital room—we're over halfway there already. They put it close to the training room for a reason.

"Nothing. He just wanted to give me this," I say, holding up the ice pack. When we watch the door to the infirmary, Al is already there. "It's not good," he says, motioning us inside. I barely recognize Tris at all, she's so beat up. "Is her eye already black?"

As I'm asking this she opens the non-injured eyes to look around at us. "What happened to your face?" she asks me.

I grin and laugh, even though it hurts. "Look who's talking. Should we get you an eye patch?"

"Well, I already know what happened to _my_ face. I was there. Sort of."

"Did you just make a joke, Tris?" Will asks in mock disbelief. "We should get you on painkillers more often if you're going to start cracking jokes. Oh, and to answer your question—I beat her up."

"I can't believe you couldn't beat Will," Al chuckles.

"What? He's good." I shrug. My shoulders ache. "Plus, I think I've finally learned how to stop losing. I just need to stop people from punching me in the haw."

"You know, you'd think you would have figured that our by now," Will says, winking at me. "Now I know why you aren't Erudite. Not too bright, are you?"

"You feeling okay, Tris?" Al asks, interrupting us.

"Yeah. Just wish I could stay here forever so I never have to see Peter again."

"Don't worry about Peter," Will says. "He'll at least get beat up by Edward, who has been studying hand-to-hand combat since we were ten years old. For fun."

"Good," I reply, checking my watch with my free hand. "I think we're missing dinner. Do you want us to stay here, Tris?"

"I'm fine." Al waves me and Will out into the hall so he can talk to Tris alone.

"So self-sacrificing," Will mutters. I nod in agreement but don't respond. I am replaying a moment over and over in my head—the split second _his_ fingers touched mine.


	3. Sighted CPOV

I am in denial. Edward got stabbed in the eye last night, and I'm trying to pretend it didn't affect me as much as it did. Tris and Will think I'm taking a nap, but instead I've found a deserted dead-end hallway and am self-medicating with Sighted and a bottle of liquor. Hopefully when I'm done, I won't remember anything about last night.

I keep my pills in a nondescript black case, normally hidden under a pile of clothes in one of my drawers. Now it's on the floor next to me, and I eye it with longing as I unscrew the liquor and hold the bottle to my lips.

"What are you doing here?" a voice asks. I nearly drop the bottle, squinting to find its source. Eric, leather-clad with a satchel on his arm, one eyebrow raised, the very image of Dauntless. I have no good response; I'm shocked by his sudden appearance. He holds out his hands—covered by a fingerless glove, nails painted a chipped black—and I give him my pill case reluctantly.

“How did you get this?" My teeth dig into my lower lip. He crouches, one long, sinuous movement (did I just notice how tall and lithe he is?) so he can meet my eyes.

"From no one you know," I say, surprising myself with my own bravado. I tense, expecting to hit me—or worse. But he surprises me too.

"Why aren't you celebrating with your faction-transfer friends? You're in no danger of being factionless."

"No, I'm not," I snap, "but I stayed up last night to clean blood off the floor because someone got stabbed in the _eye_." The tension leaves my body as I remember how tired I am. "So I'm not really in a partying mood. Can I have that back?"

Instead of giving me the pill case, he shakes a few into his hand and swallows them dry, eyeing the bottles—one liquor, one water—at my side. "You don't need those," he says, motioning to the case. "I have something better."

From his satchel he pulls a bottle of rich brown liquid, breaking the seal, letting a deliciously heavy scent fill the hallway. Half afraid it will scorch me, I take it from his hand.

"What is it?" I inhale again, trying to place the somehow-familiar smell.

"Instigate. Hell and heaven, all in one convenient little bottle. I wouldn't drink it," he continues, stopping me from doing just that. "You'll die if you do."

"Then what do you do with it?" He pulls a syringe out of the bag, and a strip of cloth. He's already filling the syringe with water, adding a few drops of—what did he call it?—Instigate…

"I'm not sure I want you sticking a needle in my arm…" But I do. I want to get to a new level of denial, I need to forget. "This is safe right?" as he ties me off. There's no turning back. The last thing I feel is the needle in my flesh, last thing I hear is his voice:

"Trust me. I know what I'm doing."


End file.
